Footprints At Dawn (Book 2)

Chapter One

December 2019

My patience was wearing thin as I leant against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching my parents tour my little cottage with disapproval.

This was the first time they had visited since I bought my first home over two months ago; not that they weren't eager to see it, but I was hesitant to show them until I had it cleaned up a bit. Let's just say it was in no condition to impress anyone, that was for sure.

I had my suspicions they would disapprove of my spontaneous purchase. I knew they would be disappointed in me spending my hard-earned savings on a dilapidated dump out in the middle of nowhere. But I really hoped as soon as they saw the dilapidated dump, they would see its potential and fall in love with it just as I did.

No such luck.

"When will your new furniture arrive, Matilda?" my mother asked me from across the room, eyeing off the velvet 19th century sofas with disgust.

For as long as I could remember, she had always called me by my full name, unlike my father who had called me Tilly since the day I was born. I learnt to live with it. It was my name, after all. But every time mum called me Matilda, it sounded like she was scolding me. Whereas, when Nicholas called me Matilda... sigh. It had made my heart flutter every single time.

"I'm not replacing the furniture, mum," I told her, causing her eyes to widen in disbelief.

"But... these are old."

I took a deep breath before answering, trying so hard not to lose my cool. "They're not old, they're antiques. I've had them cleaned, and they've come up like brand new. No need to change them. Besides, modern furniture wouldn't look right in here."

She sighed and turned, making her way towards the fireplace. I rolled my eyes and shook my head, shifting my focus to dad, who was staring at the bookcase full of first edition antique books.

He hadn't said much since they arrived; just made his way around the rooms in silence. It was what he tended to do, and he didn't need to speak words for you to know exactly what he was thinking. He thoughts were always written on his face.

"Huh," I heard him mumble to himself.

"Find anything of interest, dad?" I called across the room.

"These are all first editions. Unbelievable," he replied, still facing the bookcase.

"That's because they've been sitting there since the 1800s. Feel free to take one," I said, hoping to win him over with a vintage book.

"You know, you could sell these," he said, turning around to face my direction. "Recover some of the money you lost buying this sh- Uh, shack."

"Goodness, Matilda!" I heard my mum exclaim in a disgraced tone, distracting me from bursting out in a fit of rage at my father. My head snapped to the side to see what she had found to disapprove of this time. She was standing in front of the fireplace, gaping at the cottage painting Nicholas had painted in 1869. One single negative comment about that beautiful painting and I swear I was going to crack. "It's filthy! Why on earth wouldn't you clean it up? There's even a Daddy-long-legs taking up residence in the corner of the frame, staring at me with his beady little eyes."

I had my reasons for not cleaning the painting and its frame. Reasons I certainly couldn't tell my mum, or anyone for that matter. It was because when I touched that painting over two months ago, I somehow landed in 1869, and was unable to get back home until eight weeks later. Knowing what could possibly happen again if I touched the painting once more, I had steered clear of it since my purchase of the cottage, which explained why it was the only thing in the room not cleaned.